Tired (100th anniversary of the Night Bus Part 3)

It seems dear friends the journey back has misfired,

The places, the passengers, the public are tired.

In all the games that fatigues play,

That stay with you as long as the day,

And when you get the strength to put it all on,

Weary feet have nowhere to run.

But cab fare is rare at this stage,
Cars away, transport methods change,
Our red chariot cuts through the gloom
The Night Bus route is coming through

Why should I, knowing it to be lies, ride this thing again?

Disregard all the drama that buses put me in.

And get another chance at baffling the night,

With a tripped out extra-temporal flight

But cab fare is rare at this stage,
Cars away, transport methods change,
Our red chariot cuts through the gloom
The Night Bus route still rides through

Fights in pubs never got me close,

At bus stops wrestling with mobile phones

Told you so! As I got bounced

Received the answer for the time a few streets down

But cab fare is rare at this stage,
Cars away, transport methods change,
Our red chariot cuts through the gloom
The Night Bus route still rides through

Could it be? Inexplicably not the 80s

A heady mix of mystery and memories

From someone who know the exact street and time

I might just catch it, no secrets, no lies.

But cab fare is rare at this stage,
Cars away, transport methods change,
Our red chariot cuts through the gloom
The Night Bus route still rides through

What a miracle to be in my zone again,

my 100 year old friend here to welcome me in.

Because cab fare is rare at this stage…

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So Damn Hard (100th anniversary of the Night Bus Part 1)

Who am I?

Grand designs unwind themselves after a long week at work,

Ditched the plastic helmets and ultrabrite shirts,

Doling out to my colleagues Bacchanalian promises.

Need the space to vent it all,

So the source will perspire,

While feeding the fire in a thirsty employee.

But the keys are mislaid and the wallets is absent,

The plans are waylaid, the night could be cancelled.

Misery needs company and it has a ready sidekick.

Mind twisted with worry that this night is,

Headed further south than an ocean-going leviathan.

It’s priceless!

How long does a man have to work?

Forever shuffling in the dirt like a worm,

Until the weekday pours out,

And I enjoy what I’ve earned.

Is it a crime to get out of the house for once?

Grab a few pints and a little bit of munch,

Endure a call from my love with her undies in a bunch.

I’m constantly working, grafting my arse off,

While my other half can make me feel like a cast-off.

Ordering me about on my only day out,

Isn’t freedom what Friday nights are all about?

What’s worse?

I’ll be heading home on the worst contraption on earth.

Two things men fear from birth combined —

Large moving things in the night time

Life Round Here

Here again, the concrete shares itself with the clouds,

Rigid uniformity. And cadence. And colour,

Moves endlessly with the multitude,

An exodus from work, or school.

Teeming teens. A torrent of toddlers. The army of Adults…

See? I’m good with alliteration.

The nations of many packed into four small zones, so many tongues my head is filled with the sound of the familiar, mashed into words I will never remember.

I always thought of it as my city, does it belong to me alone? The thought of it breaks me to pieces. It is the land of the traveller, always baring its pleasure to strangers, but its secrets-like the pipe to the addict-are persistent to those that seek it out.

A toast to the system that feeds on the extremes; Luxury flights and Economy class, Museums and Nightclubs, Rolls-royce and the overcrowded railway. The in-betweens disappear in pavement cracks. Too much of the many to matter.

The jack-of-all trades will pass long before his exhausted his talents here. His gravestone will read: No one, Master of None. London once again has had its fun.

To become undone at the weight of all its gifts, pressed to nothing at the heaviness of the street lights. Shoved into the torrent of the heaving mass, spat out on the side street of some new adventure. A newborn again in the town he was born.

Fireside (How Was Your 15 Minutes?)

No. All the things you thought were true.

They have disappeared to a fine ash.

No one knows how long the flame burns,

They just know it was, a long time ago,

A sooty hard coal.

Brittle and cool to the touch.

Plenipotent, trapped in graphene plates

Till the time to shine is long since late

Bringing together all the years it’s had to wait.

Deep in the ground, fusing together

All the things that lived and died above you,

came to join you, the weight of years pressed pieces together.

Until you were discovered.

Unearthed from the mother.

Gathered with your fellows.

But it’s your lucky day!

You get fed to the fireplace.

For 15 minutes you get to show your worth

Millennia of work, poured out in one burst.

The coals in symphony with one another

Their hands are in the air, light gold and red fingers,

Struck through with so much blues,

Giving its very soul to another,

In the fire.

Warm and pretty,

Conjured again when the fans are ready.

But a coal has one flame, none is left

It’s dead grey ashes cast aside for the next.

Your soul burned hot, your flames retired.

Make way for more coals on the fire.

Sayagata

Behold, snap I mean there she go! the sprightly traveller
Sister of the gypsie
With most she seems so much to matter
But beneath, her skin betrays a mystery
Of the working of God on the planet below
The Golden ratio, in beautiful code

Its the bloom of her Lotus Flower
The mathematical formula that brings life to power and shapes it around us
Her passion surrounds us

She personifies the unknown from what I can gather
Or at least the misunderstood as you can tell from my chatter
Even though I dont fully understand her
The allure of her presence keeps me enraptured
As the sun captured in endless sayagata

I keep her safe from the rain
From the glaciers of Galician mountains
And deep sleet in elysian plains
While all the while I learn the wiles of gypsie blood that fills her veins.

Eyes deep as the earth, connected to both poles as the mother is
From my own she goes to build shelters
To leave the concrete and feel the beach.
As I speak I hear her heart beat.
Peace.

Concrete Slice

The steel-cold kobold,
Peddle on frost-bitten roads.
Before the vendors of those,
Who sell fried chicken.
Or Kebaby’s where it may get stabby.
Or any classic backdrop of a modern urban tragedy.

The counter-culture soldier says to another;
“I thought we were leaving all the gear with your brother?
And we’d be getting no more calls or bother?
If I have to do a bird who will take care of my mother?”

Because the counter-culture soldier is an only son,
Of a weary single mother whose best has come undone.
And we all know this isn’t a question of just one;

That bought the lie of power from a little white square,
With freedom or a life the price for peddling the gear.
But there is little turnover in preaching to the choir,
Cos profit is the motive for the scene yet to transpire.

Easy to take aim at the youth gone wrong.
Hard to ask ourselves where all the drugs come from.

Scene ends, the counter-culture soldier has laid his life down.
Common consequence when handling the White and the Brown.
His eulogy is held over broadcasting silence.
Soul lost to a war not in Iraq or Northern Ireland.

But who will mourn this soldier when they put him in the ground?
No gun salute, just the sirens sound.
Another young soldier will replicate this life.
The same tale in this jungle, another concrete slice.

The Voices in the Wall/ The Walls are thin, here.

The voices in the Wall, think they’re all so fucking cool,
Pseudo-psychoanalysts, just a bunch of nosey tools,
Is there any right that these jumped-up, moralistic, prigs can find to try and listen in,
Through the thin,
Drywall and concrete brick,
It makes me sick,
Like a fly on the wall that won’t be crushed,
Reality TV that they don’t need to rush with at all.
No delay.
No replay.
They’ll be here everyday to comment on, what’s going on
With the neighbours round the way.
When was it ever acceptable to play Voyeur?
Even if you want to do it at least show yourselves, pervs!
The enemy I can’t see has no right to judge me.
I remember the old days…
Actually, I won’t call them old days, still quite fresh of face
When all my enmity was conveyed to some external space,
The truth? With crushing brevity; it’s my own mental state.
The walls are thin, here.
Disembodied voices disappear and reappear.
Unable to vent my strife, despite the agony  of knowing no one’s there.
Of faceless foes and twice failed family,
Partaking in this twisted tragedy,
The secrets are of my own making,
All to the voyeur, just straight laid bare for the taking.
Even in my sanctuary can’t receive any rest,
The newest round of judgement seems to weigh heavy on my chest.
Common sense says opinions of wisdom mustn’t keep us down,
But close-minded misconceptions make a clamour for my crown,
Tears of a clown, smile on my face.
Pent up by pernicious thoughts that try to keep me in place,
Who knew such bitterness could mix with such utter disgrace,
I am the writers nemesis; my own mind is misplaced.